Graham Walker - The Bigger Issue Man, writer, fundraiser.

the bigger issue no. 2

2009-09-07T15:39:00.001+01:00

expostulator no. 2

2009-09-07T15:37:00.002+01:00

the bigger issue No. 1

2009-09-07T15:27:00.005+01:00

The expostulator. Issue No. 1

2009-09-07T09:32:00.007+01:00

Due to a few people missing me when i visit their town, i have been asked if i could publish The Bigger Issue/expostulator on line. So yer tiz. click to enlarge.

Graham at Borders in Bristol

2009-05-13T10:16:00.002+01:00

Hello folks,

Here is a picture of Graham in action at Borders in Bristol recently. He was talking as part of the Tangent Books Author! Author! events.

Other news, Graham has relaunched his 'Bigger Issue' magazine and is selling copies for a Guinea (or £1.05p) at his usual haunts across the South West. Mr Walker will also be appearing at the Glastonbury Festival and will be accosting unsuspecting festival goers around the Caberet field.

More news from The Bigger Issue man soon.

Boring

2009-03-18T09:44:00.004Z

A reader who wishes to remain anonymous asked...

As someone who seems to attract people who drone on for ever about every detail of their (extremely boring) lives at social events, how do you suggest that I deal with them?

Thanks for your question. As this is the first question in my “Ask uncle Graham” blog. I am more than relieved in feeling confidently qualified to answer this particular poser.

As a Big Issue vendor selling my wares in many towns throughout the South West. The two things these places have always held in common is; they always come equipped with a ‘bore par excellence’ (strangely, only ever one per town), the second being, the buggers, adept as they are, sniff me out within hours of my arriving and immediately adopt me as their new best mate!

Now I could give you the perfect answer to your obviously angst-ridden question: ‘Tell him/her to piss off!’ Of course, as a fellow bore magnet, I am aware that you, and indeed I, could never deliver that kind of rhetoric. And the bore is more than aware of that! Having never met you I sense you are a kindly person; a person who exudes compassion and is as much caring as you are approachable. That’s what we, as bore magnets, are. We both of us may as well have a flashing flourescent sign stuck on our heads stating; ‘BORE REFUGE. COME ON IN’.

So, before entering a rather indirect -those who can’t, teach - type of solution to your problem, let me fill you in on the three main aspects that together,I believe, form the make-up of the ‘bore psyche’.

1. Bores are astute, far cleverer then the likes of you and I.
2. Bores don’t become bores overnight, they have been boring all their lives, they are professional, they’re good at what they do.
3. Bores live with continual rejection, it’s part of the job, water off a ducks back.
3a. Bores have a skin, thicker than a rhino in a duvet.

On a personal note, my latest bore was ‘Mr. Cheeseman’ from Taunton. (he talked cheese!) “Mornin mucker” “Aagghh, morning Ennui “I would say (His name was Henry but he thinks I’ve got a speech inpediment). “Yeah, got ripped off yesterday with some farmhouse cheddar.” “Did you Ennui.” “yes” he replied, “I asked for extra mature but I have a strong feeling they fobbed me off with mothing more than slightly tasty mild, can’t prove it of course, just gotta live with it I s’pose.. Now as it’s Tuesday I was considering trying 150 grams of double gloucester tomorrow. It could be a mistake but life’s about taking risks.” “Well let’s hope they don’t rip you off with a single one Ennui.” I muttered, in pseudo-supportive, wanna tear my head off sort of tone. Of course he didn’t hear it, borers are not there to listen. Yes for three months I just about handled Mr Cheeseman. I even handled his daily parting line; “If I don’t see you through the week, I’ll see you through the window, ha ha ha” I then came up with the solution to get Mr Cheeseman off my back. I left Taunton for Weston super mare, acutely aware of the fact that, from experience, there was another, as it transpired, a (I’ve watched every film John Wayne ever made I have) type of bore, lurking in the shadows, awaiting my arrival. You see I was, as I believe you are, in denial. You must therefore, before attempting the following solution, accept the fact that bores will always be bores, and we will always be bore magnets. There’s no changing that.

So, the final solution. Next time you’re invited to a social gathering . . . . . .

1. Bore enters room.
2. Bore spots sign on your head
3. Bore, pours himself a half of beer shandy
4. Bore approaches you and states something akin to; ‘until tonight I never ever realised that the male species of the centipede only has 84 legs.

(Now this is a crucial moment, please don’t underestimate its importance. The bore is now going for the kill

5. The split second before the bore turns a potentially rewarding evening into one where youre fiddling with your belt whilst trying to recall the film; ‘pierrepoint’ in order to ascertain; ‘at your weight, what’s the optimum drop?’ Yes, before that happens. Take one massive breath.

You may not realise it yet, but having reached this point, you are on the cusp of winning. Conversely, the bore will by now be in his element, thinking likewise.

6. Whilst the bore whitters on,counteract by reciting aloud two affirmations (remember the bore never listens) “I’m not wrong. Bore won’t beat me, I am strong, bore won’t defeat me” x8.

You will now be feeling a level of confidence perhaps never experienced before. Please treat it with respect.

7. Grab your bore by the horns.
8. Scan the room and identify the brashest, loudest person you know. Let’s call him George.
9. In an assertive manner, march your bore over to George’s group and interrupting any conversation that may be occuring, confidently introduce him. “George, this is Ennui. He’s desperate to discuss the falling standards in the gorgonzola industry.
10. Immediately, and before anyone finds the wit to respond, turn around and walk briskly to the far side of the room, pour yourself a large drink and . . .relax.
Enjoy your evening and, well done you!

Best wishes, Uncle Graham

Ode to Donna Diamond

2009-02-16T10:47:00.003Z

Donna is a diamond
She has so many facets
I've often seen her sparkle
But i'd love to see her assets

Naughty Again

2008-10-20T11:13:00.002+01:00

Apparently, the older you get the more cynical and mischevious you become. And the more you regress towards childhood. Well I’m 54; an impish, out of sync cynic who needs answers. I’m a man heading in two directions; puberty and old age. I’m A man who now annoyingly asks, ‘but why?’ Also, at 54, I’ve now become grossly compassionate.

So, before I deliver my cynical, puberty-driven column, in case I offend, I’d like to apologise. It’s nothing personal. I think any man that’s bald or follically challenged, but still insists on growing a twelve stranded, two inch pony tail clumped together with an elastic band, or indeed anyone that has the wit to read my column, is a beautiful person. Nigel from Crewkerne excluded (Yes Nigel, I did get your email request along with the rather interesting photo attachment. In response; not at the moment thankyou!) So, putting nigel behind me, in sickly compassionate mode; “I love you.” Right, that’s the soft stuff done. Let’s get on with the cynical, mischevious, annoyingly ‘but why’ly’ bit.

“But why” do people wear those hands-free, dongle type things strapped to their ear just in case someone happens to call, when I suspect the only two people likely to are; some random pollster conducting a survey on the well worn, ‘dishwasher powder vs liquid debate’, or dare I say, . . . . themselves?! It’s a bit like strapping a fire extinguisher on your back . . . . .just in case!

“But why” do blokes walk around with a huge bunch of keys hooked on the belt loop of their trousers; enough keys to liberate the entire prison poulation. Surely no-one’s life is burdened with that many locks.

“But why” do people pay a small fortune on, ‘almost personalised’ number plates such as V111 KEY or N17 ELL, or G30 KJE when all it reveals is that Vicky and Nigel couldn’t afford the one that’s spelt right, and George, will no doubt be busy adding a few strategically placed screws in an attempt to fool us that his plate bears a striking resemblence to his name.

“But why” do those who wear toupees never take . . . . .! Oops, ‘word count’ dictates I must now, unfortunately, desist. So, finishing as I started; on an apologetic, treacly compassionate note, when I previously said ‘I love you,’ I didn’t mean it to come across as some sort of egotistically impersonal, Michael Jackson; ‘I love everyone in the world’ type of I love you. ‘Cos you know it aint like that with me. It’s only you I love.

Remembering Miles

2008-09-17T12:38:00.003+01:00

I shouldn’t be saying, this but I will, ‘cos I know I must. If you’ve gotten to read my book, you’ll perhaps be familiar with the person I’m talking about. Due to family politics it was ‘requested’ I give him an assumed name: Adam. I can’t tell you how guilty I now feel about that. It was akin to denying his very existence. But now, divorced from others’ politics, “his real name is Miles, spelt MILES”. Other than wonderful, there is no adjective to fit a friend whose death was a personal tragedy and whose funeral was . . . . made more than difficult!

Miles was an ex Big Issue vendor, a person who lived life too hectic, too fast, too vivid; too short. A person who on the very rare occasion, ‘dabbled’, and a person who occasionally shared a home with a manic, part time relationship.

The last two times I saw Miles are, for me, equally significant. The first of those was when it was his partner’s birthday. I’d arranged to meet Miles at midday in Plymouth. He was there; steaming drunk and almost unable to stand. So, knowing that he was due to be at his partners birthday party in less than six hours and sober, for the next four of those, I dragged him around Plymouth, not allowing him to sit down, lie down, just walk and drink copious amounts of coffee. After four hours he was almost there. “Have you bought Hazel a birthday present” I asked. “Oh shit, I have nae”. So, Hazel being a Liverpuddlian meat-free female, covering all angles, I bought, a card, vegetarian cookbook and a bunch of red and white flowers.

Arriving back at his part time home; his part time manic relationship, with Miles now sober, excited, and armed with responsible, ‘I love you’ type of gifts, Hazel then, proceeded to tear the card, the flowers and the book to pieces and throw them all on the fire. I left. The next time, the very last time I saw Miles was, a few months later when we were walking through town, when he left me for ten minutes to visit a local flat and indulge in one of his rare ‘dabbles’. Unfortunately this particular dabble involved a heroin dealer, a syringe and a fatal overdose.

Miles death, was as some would assess his life; a tragedy. But whatever take people had on that life, his funeral instead of being a healing gathering of friends and family, was instead, for me, a chore; an unexpected chore that was not only made difficult, but disappointingly tragic . . . . . .

Big Issue man mugs OAP shocker!

2008-09-09T14:02:00.003+01:00

Last week I mentioned how my lengthy spell of homelessness had been a long and necessary journey; a journey striving for equity, to nullify the damage from my previous 35 years; my previous life. Last week I also mentioned that after 15 years I had achieved just that. I was now ready to go it alone; it was time to move on. Or at least I thought it was! Unfortunately there was one final hurdle, silly me hadn’t recognised that the sack of guilt I had been carrying throughout my entire journey, whilst now considerably lighter, wasn’t yet quite empty, there were still a few granules of guilt left. To an outsider, this sack may appear unwarranted. After all the guilt was born from a shit childhood, a childhood beyond my control, an apprenticeship that turned me into a five star, en-suite disaster of an adult. To me though, it was my burden, my fault, my sack of guilt.

Selling the Big Issue has not only given me an income, it’s also provided an open road lined with limitless opportunities. I am proud to say that what were once opportunities, are now achievements. More importantly, for each thing I have achieved, my ‘sack’ has reciprocated by spilling some of its guilty contents. Even the insults that have come my way – insults I felt were thoroughly deserved – held a positive element; each insult has been matched with yet another fist full of granules scattered on the road behind me, perhaps sticking to the soles of those who felt the need to abuse me. Then, last week, I had a bit of a ‘moment’. I was just on my way to work when I passed a window cleaner. (This particular window cleaner has a bit of a problem inasmuch that every time he passes my Big Issue pitch, his face seems to contort into a sort of sneer. Poor thing.) Anyway, walking on, I then saw an elderly gent trip in the middle of the road. I rushed over to him and helped him to his feet. With both my arms wrapped around his waist, the window cleaner suddenly looked across, vacated his ladder and started running towards us shouting “Leave him alone you ba***rd”. Yes, all he could see was ‘Big Issue Man mugging OAP’. It was at this moment precisely, my bag of guilt spewed out the very last of its contents; the final hurdle.

So on New Years Day 2009, I will be moving on, to travel a different road. All I can hope for is, this new road supplies a walk that is as rewarding and achieving as this one has undoubtedly been.

No smoke without fire

2008-09-01T12:15:00.002+01:00

I have bad news! To those who know me, to those who think I am a clean-cut, vice-free model of a Big Issue man, this news may come as something of a shock. You see, for over twenty years, in the form of a cigarette, my lungs have been downloading copious amounts of nicotine, tar and carbon monoxide. What a pair of suckers! Having said that, to temper the shock of discovering that I’m not quite the halo-hatted man you may have thought I was, I also have good news; I’ve finally given up! I am finally, no longer a contributor to the coffers (sorry) of Messrs Lambert and Butler.

It took some doing, of course. A twenty year habit of any kind is going to be a hard one to break. But I’ve done it. Just as importantly for me, I did it all on my own. No patches, nicotine replacement gum, hypnotherapy or acupuncture; just pure, unadulterated willpower. I’m rather proud of that. O.K., it wasn’t all plain sailing. I did go through a rather depressing withdrawal phase. A period helped by busying myself in working out that, as each cigarette contains 0.9mg of tar, I had, in my lifetime, choked my way through 195Kgs of the stuff; three times my body weight! Yuk!

The signs are all there

2008-09-01T12:13:00.004+01:00

I’m an early riser me. So at 5 or 6am in the morning, I often take a stroll around the local town centre for a spot of window shopping. That may sound a sadly, bizarre entry to the day, but in fact it can be quite enjoyable. Having little interest in what the shops are selling, I instead amuse myself by reading the signs and notices in the windows. One morning a postcard in a newsagents window stated; ‘Lady will do ironing and cleaning, husband will do anything in the garden!!’ A little further along the road, an optician was advertising; ‘FREE EYE TESTS AVAILABLE NOW! (subject to availability)’.

Or if you fancied a bit of culture, a hoarding advertising The Railway Hotel near Newcastle stated; ’ . . . . easy access to the angle of the north’. How obtuse! And although the pub wasn’t yet open, the Castle Inn were doing a special deal; ‘ALL DRINKS £1.50! (except beers, wines, lagers and cider)’. Bargain! At 9am, feeling rather hungry, I queued up at a local breakfast bar for a bacon and egg sandwich before starting work. “Please bare with us during busy periods” yelled the sign. What!, join a bunch of burly blokes in getting my kit off smack in the middle of the High street? I don’t think so!

Glastonbury

2008-07-09T14:07:00.003+01:00

It’s Friday. It’s been raining for over 3 hours. I’m stood in a muddied field selling the Big Issue accompanied by my pet plastic heron. I’m also having an in-depth conversation on Marxism with a guy who has a large slice of gorgonzola strapped to his head, whilst another man, dressed as a pink witch, is showering me with energy from a penis shaped crystal in an attempt to rid me of a painful bout of migraine.

It’s Saturday. What a difference a day makes. The sun is out, the witch has, the Gorgonzola man has ‘gone off’ and my migraine is in remission, on this, my first ever visit to the Glastonbury festival.

I was invited to attend Glastonbury some weeks ago. Buzz, the coordinator of the Theatre and Circus field had invited me to perform a daily ‘one man show’ based on life as a Big Issue vendor. The perks of the gig being that I’d get paid £150, have two free tickets, and a back stage pass. (Life can be so demanding at times.) With three years sleeping rough and many more, homeless, I figured I was apprenticeship served, well equipped for the rigours of Glastonbury; sleeping in a tent, eating cold beans from a can prised open with a sharpened toothbrush, midnight cider around an open fire, scouring the bins for the random discarded vegetable samosa. This gig would indeed, be a breeze. But it was all a bit of a disappointment really. Not once were my homeless skills called upon. It was a bit like a guy spending six years at university studying meteorology, only to get a job in an umbrella factory. Yes, for me, It was all a bit too . . . .refined!

I was picked up from Bristol with my baggage; baked beans, sharpened toothbrush, cider, Issues, plastic heron and tent, then driven, not just to the festival, but, as a performer, chauffeured through to the performer’s camping area backstage. No queues, no hassle, no fuss, just. . . .refined. Settled in, I wandered over to visit and help put up the tent, of what could be deemed, my hosts; Richard, and Maggie Telfer OBE and their children, Caitlin and Mena. (Great family, crap campers).

It was, Yes, a refined weekend. Unlike the masses, whenever I wanted coffee, I went to the performer’s office and put the kettle on. Unlike the masses. Whenever I wanted to charge my mobile phone, one of the back-stage crew would oblige. Whenever I wanted to eat, I would simply amble the fifty yards to the ‘green room’ at various times of the day for a; subsidised, full english breakfast, fresh fruit salad, a lasagne, pint of beer and a chat with fellow performers. And this on top of well equipped showers and toilet situated adjacent to my tent. Glastonbury, en-suite. So, a weekend at Glastonbury. A weekend of indulgence.

I of course, between my performances, selling the Issue, showers, putting the kettle on, lasanga and subsidised beer, did get out and about. I did see Kate Melua, Solomon Burke, Amy, Eddy Grant, Joan Baez and the brilliant Massive Attack. I did at one point, even venture up to the hill, to watch the masses, some of them suits; financiers, bankers, who, once every year, replace their Chelsea pad and pin stripe for a dome tent, a pair of Levis, a red feather in their hair, ten tins of baked beans and a sharpened toothbrush. Poor souls.

Glastonbury is no doubt, a unique, international event. I think for me, it gives everyone, performers and public alike, the opportunity and freedom to express; to be what we’d like to be, a weekend with no confines, a weekend with no rules. A weekend of acceptance that shows us that we are all, each and every one of us, different! More importantly, a weekend where we glorify that difference.

The highlight of Glastonbury for me, was on the final night, 11.40 pm. when a 1,000 strong, lantern lit parade, along with bands, jugglers, drummers and a guy with a piece of gorgonzola strapped to his head, wended it’s way through the festival site, arriving at a special bonfire back in the Circus and Theatre field. A field that had supplied me with a wonderful, and memorable weekend. This procession, this bonfire, was in memory of Arabella Churchill, the grand daughter of Winston, and the founder of the ‘Theatre and Circus field’. Arabella had, over the years, introduced, evolved, managed, and even self-financed this new concept into Glastonbury. A concept, through her efforts, that reflects what Glastonbury is all about; Theatre, expression!

At midnight, the end of the festival, I stood by that bonfire and reflected on my weekend, wonderful. Stood by that fire, I reflected on Arabella, who died of cancer last year, aged 49. Stood by that fire, I thought of the wonderful lady, a close friend of Arabella’s, who had now taken on her role; Buzz, my new friend. Mesmerised by that fire, I wrote some words:

“And on the third night, a cold night, Arabella’s fire returned, once again supplying us her warmth. And as that fire drew it’s final breath, the very last ember released the brightest spark imaginable. It hovered in the night sky, flickering in satisfaction, before floating ever higher towards the stars; home, to rest awhile, before its return next year.
One soul, one perennial spark, one eternal flame; Arabella Churchill”.

And for me, one amazing weekend.

The Big Issue Ladder

2008-07-09T14:01:00.001+01:00

Selling the ‘Big Issue’, for every single member of the homeless community is an open invitation, and often the first rung on a ladder that lifts you off the streets. Some are not yet ready to grasp that opportunity. Some will abuse it. Many though will indeed help themselves and climb that first rung.

By selling the Big Issue or helping yourself in whatever way after a life on the streets is planting a seed that can sprout into a future. And whilst it’s one you need to plant yourself, it’s often a seed that needs nourishment and support from others.

From experience, stood on that first rung looking back down at where you were, can be the scariest, loneliest place to be. A long climb ahead: a simple, effortless, and temptingly short step back! Consequently, this is the very moment; a finite, critical moment when that support, nourishment, is so desperately needed. Ironically, this is often the precise moment, the ‘support’ you received on the streets, is whipped from under your feet. Now I’ve never ever got that. Oh the fools!

Millions of pounds of resources are poured into ‘supporting’ people living on the streets; people who have not yet planted that seed. People who have not yet, anything to support. They’ll find you accommodation, they’ll find you a dentist, they’ll even find you a job. Eureka! But for the vast majority, it will be money wasted. Support is not, at this moment, needed. Maintenance is! Night shelters and day centres do a huge, front-line job in providing that maintenance; maintaining people’s health and well being until they too, plant their own seed, until they too, have the strength to climb that first rung, until they too discover the precise moment the support they received when they didn’t want it, now that they do, has all but vanished. I could give many examples over this. Here’s one.

I was in Totnes, Devon. I was on a very shortlist of two that were nominated for council accommodation. On the final interview I was asked, ‘how can we contact you’? “I have a mobile” I declared. “Oooh” said the young man interviewing me, “that won’t look good on the application.” Of course I could have spent that £30 on a dozen bottles of cheap sherry which would have read ‘A level, distinction’ on my ‘need for housing’ C.V. But I didn’t. So they gave the flat to a young heroin addict in the town, a young man who overdosed a week later. I was pissed off. Not for me, for him! ‘Support’ had naively placed him on the second rung of that ladder when he so clearly, hadn’t yet stepped up to the first.

Good, bad or indifferent?

2008-06-24T09:56:00.001+01:00

Be it good, bad or indifferent, every interaction we make with others will have an effect; an effect we will often be unaware of, an effect with the potential to leave a wake that can snowball, and ultimately, adjust the lives of many. Do one good deed and it has the potential to appear a miracle, one bad deed, the potential to court unmitigated disaster. Even indifference; a non-deed, has the potential to propagate, to propagate yet more indifference. On the latter I have an example. It involves a disused letter box, a shiny red post box, a Big Issue pitch, the general public, and me!

But here, I do need to interject. This is a message to all Big Issue vendors. On occasion, stood on your pitch, you will meet up with the opportunity to assist a member of that public; help them on their way, do a good deed. Well proceed with caution. A percentage of the population- from personal experience- deem we are all ne’er do wells, miscreants, drug addicts, misfits and thieves (I’ve a feeling they don’t like us). To help one of these people out can seriously mess up their heads; non-contributors to society?. . . . contributing? Consequently, the response to your good deed will often be vastly different than that you’d expected.

My first memorable attempt at ‘good-deeding’ happened when I was on my pitch in Plymouth some years ago. A man walked past me. ‘Big Issue sir?’ He didn’t respond. He then walked to the cashpoint down the road and withdrew some money. Grabbing his cash, he walked off, inadvertently dropping a tenner on the floor behind him. I ran down the road, grabbed the tenner and shouted after him. “Oy mate”. He looked back, and presuming I was employing a rather pro-active sales technique, shouted, “No”. I tried again. “But sir you. . . .”, “No!” he repeated. I started running after him, frantically waving his tenner in the air. But when he saw me running, he started running himself! “But sir you’ve dropped a tenner” I yelled. No response. After a couple of hundred yards I slowly started gaining on him. So he started sprinting, slicing his way through the busy shoppers with a slalom effect. He was good, damn good.

In retrospect, I’m sure had I persisted, what with my renowned staying power and deft turn of foot, I would have undoubtedly caught him. But hey, what the hell.

Now I do apologise, but that interjection has cleaned me right out of column inches. So please do call by next week when I’ll get back to the story.

Let off life

2008-06-18T11:25:00.001+01:00

Let off life’s leash,
I soon found my niche.
It fitted me smart as a glove.
Wandrin’ the street,
The whole world at my feet
And a star-punctured ceiling above

A Big Issue vendor
On an onus-free bender,
My me was now able to thrive.
I sucked in the glory
Of a life now with story.
For the first time, a life now alive.

Ridiculously free,
Answering only to me,
Unhitched from the drip-feed of pain,
I could now flirt with fun,
I could dance ‘neath the sun,
Or anonymously cry in the rain.

It’s hard to believe
What this life has achieved.
A life though, that some still deride.
If only they knew
What it took to get through.
If only they’d rode that same ride.

So here now I stand.
Many thanks for your hand.
Though at this stage there enters a but.
Now I’ve oft sung this song;
But I will soon move on.
Lest my niche, gets so worn, it’s a rut.

I went down a storm at the Thunderbolt!
After my first ever ‘one man show’ at the Bath fringe festival, you know, the one where part of the act involved me doing some readings from my book, but forgot my reading glasses. The one that was more ‘bad hair day’ than fringe. Well, last week, me being me, I jumped into the lion’s den once again by performing my second one man show at a wonderful pub in Bristol – ‘The Thunderbolt!’ This time (lessons learnt), although armed with three pairs of reading glasses even I could never have envisioned that I would go down a storm. But I did! I bloody well did! Next stop; Glastonbury! . . . . . perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned storm!

I was recently invited to do a talk at a homeless centre in Weston (reproduced courtesy of The Big Issue SW and Wales)

2008-06-09T10:11:00.001+01:00

I was recently invited to do a talk at a homeless centre in Weston. A talk based on my experiences as a Big Issue man. With an audience of 20, I showed a video, reeled off a few amusing anecdotes, then finished with a question and answer session. I was relaxed, confidently accomplished and entertaining. This was reflected in the ‘best speaker we’ve ever had’ comments at the end.

This particular talk was hot off the heels from my previous one a week earlier; my first ever ‘gig’ in front of a paying audience! I’d been booked to do a one man show at the Bath fringe festival. The first half of the act involved me reading selected passages from my book. Actually you may remember, through this column a couple of weeks ago, I confidently predicted; ‘I’ll be absolutely amazing,’ ‘The crowd will be sat in the palm of my hand,’ and, ‘They will beg for more.’ Well, I wasn’t! They weren’t! And they most definitely didn’t!

Stood on the stage, book in hand, the full house soon settled. I introduced myself, and then reached in my pocket for my glasses. The pocket was flat! Shit! My specs had, (not for the first time) let me down. I could see them now, sat cross-legged on the table in my camper van, no doubt peering critically at the carefully prepared notes that were also, not in my pocket.

I stood there; alone, on stage, fast-frozen and spotlit! A swathe of liquidized thoughts swirled around my brain, whilst the room and its occupants entered a state of silent anticipation. I flicked nervously through my book. Its pages revealing (predictably) line after line of blur! Frustratingly, blur that I knew, was masking some finely crafted words set out in a rather subtle 12pt. Helvetica font. Then, from a brain that was now in free-fall to a place called meltdown, a solitary thought managed to escape, and hammered frantically on my temple, ‘Do something you bloody idiot! Do something! So I did! In thespianic panic, I shouted, “Is there an optician in the house?”

Getting ready for the Bath Fringe Festival

2008-05-27T18:20:00.001+01:00

The enthusiasm I hopefully conveyed at the end of my last column, one week later, still remains. Enthusiasm that’s now been joined by an unchartered measure of confidence. Standing on my pitch, this week’s insults (six in total) came at me like rockets, rockets my confidence grabbed hold of, tied in knots, then tossed nonchalantly into the gutter whence they came. Confidence, enthusiasm? I’m bursting at the seams with the stuff. But I shouldn’t be! You see in four days, little me; mild mannered and devoid of anything that remotely resembles talent, will be performing a one man show (on my own!) at the Bath Fringe festival. An act based around the surreal experiences of life on a Big Issue pitch.

Now I have two major concerns over this ‘gig’. The first; I’ve only ever performed this act to an audience of one: Me, reflected in a mirror. (I didn’t go down well. At one point I even heckled myself). The other concern is that until last week, my one man show was double the size. Unfortunately the other half of the act (the half with the talent), has gone AWOL. I’m suddenly Wise, without his Morecombe; a glove puppet without a hand up its rear, I should be feeling empty. But I’m not. I’m still annoyingly confident.

Now it’s a bit strange writing about something that’s ‘going’ to happen, knowing that by the time you get to read this, it would already have. With that in mind, I will be/was absolutely amazing. The packed audience were sat mesmerised in the palm of my hand. They begged for more, and boy did I make them beg. And I haven’t slept since due to the standing ovation still ringing in my ears. (I wish I’d bloody well calm down).

Of course the Bath Fringe is simply a warm-up you know. A practice lap for the big one. Yes, at the end of June I have been booked to perform six half hour slots at Glastonbury! Performing ‘alongside’ (O.K., ‘a long’ three fields away) the likes of Leonard Cohen, James Blunt, Jay-Z (who the hell is he?), Joan Armatrading and Amy Winehouse. Now as an artiste, one does pocket a few perks. One will of course be issued with a back stage pass. And one will, of course, take up residence in the performer’s field. And my camper van will, of course, be equipped with the little (but oh so essential) luxuries denied to the masses. I may even make a spare bed up, just in case. Well you know what she’s like. Our Amy’s been so absent minded lately, she might forget her tent.

Pink!

2008-05-26T18:22:00.000+01:00

I’ve been seeing red lately. Well, almost red. Pink actually. It’s absolutely everywhere. And I’m absolutely sick of it. Historically a feminine colour, pink would often invite a tear to your eye: a pretty ribbon tied to the hair of a cute baby, the delicate icing on a wedding cake, a carnation, a cloud diffused sunset. Pink was special. O.K., you might have occasionally seen the random bloke wearing it, but only after he’d inadvertently stuck a non colour-fast jumper in with his whites (Now I know this is a bit of a carrots/vomit analogy, but strangely, it doesn’t seem to matter what colour the jumper is). Yes pink was a colour that screamed ‘feminine’. Ironically, a colour now, that anyone with the slightest whiff of femininity seems to steer well clear of.

Look I’m not talking out of my head here. I’ve done the colour thing. I’m actually old enough to have lived in the early 1980’s and participated fully in the brown and beige era. I lived and breathed brown and beige. Married at the time, we lived in a beige house with brown and beige curtains, brown and beige carpets, sofa, cushions, wallpaper, kitchen units and ornaments. My wife even hand knitted matching brown and beige jumpers for us (no wonder I could never find her). For a while, we loved and we lived brown and beige. And then we got over it, we let go, we moved on.

Pink though, has most definitely outstayed its welcome. Now way past it’s sell by date, it nevertheless continues to gain popularity. There’s even a local shop (Pinkilicious), who actually specialise in pink! From lamp shades to loo rolls, door knobs to duvets, tents to telephones, toilet seats to tool kits, you can buy almost anything you can think of. And it all comes in only one nauseous colour!

Pink, these days more a commodity than a colour, is now the ‘must have’ of large, loud, hard nosed women who walk down the street chewing pink gum, wearing a pink track suit emblazoned with ‘I’m a little princess’ whilst towing a pit bull terrier sporting a pink studded collar and matching dog lead, Pretty in pink? I don’t think so. Yesterday I even spotted a macho looking man in his 4 x 4, one shovel sized hand supplying a rather aggressive gesture to a fellow motorist, his other hand clutching a steering wheel with a fluffy pink cover. Get a grip man! It’s pink. It’s sugar and spice, it’s all things nice, it’s what little girls are made of. It’s bloody pink!

What does a vendor do?

2008-05-25T19:21:00.000+01:00

What does a Big Issue vendor do when they finally hang up their badge? When they walk away from the oasis that has provided the necessary time out and nourishment. What does a vendor do?

After 11 years stood on the streets, receiving in equal measure, others venom and hugs. After 11 years full of the most wearisome and wonderful experiences. After 11 years of achievement, achievement rewarded with great friends and life-long memories. What does a vendor do?

At 53 years of age I suspect options are limited. So, perhaps find what I would deem an affiliated trade; chugger; news delivery man, or perhaps join the ‘opposition’ and sell the War Cry. Yes what does a vendor do? They get bloody scared, that’s what they do.

Here I am, following in the wake of many before me. Yes, I myself am about to enter, the ‘bloody scary’ phase.

But before that happens, before I finally move on, I need to prepare. I need to garner the few remaining ingredients that together with all I’ve gained as a Big Issue man will I’m sure constitute a big, fat fruit cake of a future.

By the time you read this, I would have taken the first step. ‘Good’ Friday sees my camper van and I safely ensconced in a rather swish caravan site. My halfway house. No more lay-bys, No more park benches, squats or bus shelters. This is it. I’m doin’ fun. I’m doin’ luxury! I’m going to absolutely wallow in life’s excesses. One such luxury I am so looking forward to is . . . .electricity! From Good Friday my van will be holding on for dear life to the national grid. We’re talking volts! And not just one of ‘em, no, I’ll have 240 of the little blighters to play with!

I shall wake every morning to a sensation-filled shower. I shall toast my bare feet in front of a two bar electric fire. I shall cook meals served on a bone china plate. In the evenings I shall write, not in flickering candlelight using the scratchy biro that reluctantly trolls the page. No, I shall buy a fine, flowing, wordy pen more deserving of the 60 watts that now peers over our shoulder. I shall do all this and more. I shall indulge.

And then, when my ‘scary phase’ finally arrives, when my sweaty palm delivers its final ‘Issue,’ in flashbacks I shall relive the last 11 years; the death throes of my life as a Big Issue man, providing the strength and impetus to move on.

And I shall think, this isn’t so scary after all.

A local author and me - Big Issue SW and Cymru May 2008

2008-05-01T15:54:00.000+01:00

A local author has asked me to contribute a piece for her forthcoming book. She has asked me to write on when I first started writing, what inspired me to write and what benefits I have received by having a book published. And all in 500 words!

I’ll of course mention my first memory of writing, during the daily play session in my first children’s home. I’ll mention that whilst the other children were doing what children should do; play, I would be stalking the grounds doing what I had to do; write. My young troubled mind, necessarily, spewing its troubled thoughts onto paper. Ten months of daily thoughts that I would have to hand into the office for ‘safekeeping’. (I do miss those thoughts).

I’ll of course mention how my writing, in later years, held more practical significance; reasoned, heart piercing, poetically pleading letters that, more than once, saved myself (and a few neighbours) from getting the electricity/gas cut off. One letter for a friend, to his wife, even saved his marriage. . . for a while!

I shall then mention how some time later, when selling the Big Issue, I started to write a weekly anecdote or poem I included in every Issue I sold. Anecdotes, poems, that fast-tracked many a wonderful friendship. After two years, anecdotes and poems, a friend suggested I gather together to produce a book. And so I did. An amazing experience. Seventy anecdotes, poems, laid out on the floor, a life’s jigsaw puzzle. A puzzle that fitted together perfectly. O.k., a few pieces missing, but it gave me, and others, the almost, full picture.

And then of course, the benefits of being an author. (I could write a book about this) I’ll more than probably mention one, significant example. I’ll mention how a customer, Liz, each Thursday morning, whilst waiting for her husband to get his prescription, would quickly slap a pound coin in my hand but wouldn’t take the Issue because; “My husband would kill me!” I may even mention how, feeling guilty about receiving something for nothing, I would instead, simply rip out my weekly column from the magazine which she would secrete in her purse. I will then finally mention how she bought my little book and, after reading it, felt brave enough to leave it for her husband to find, who to her astonishment, read it in one sitting.

Liz still doesn’t buy the Big Issue from me. That’s because her husband Pete does; every Thursday morning when we have our weekly chat, whilst Liz is in the chemists getting his prescription.

I just thought I’d mention that.

Tales Of The Unsettled (By Kelly Salter, October 2007 from The Big Issue Cymru)

2008-01-14T10:59:00.000Z

Graham Walker says he’s always been homeless, one way or another. His new book, Unsettled, offers a remarkable, articulate insight into the complicated life of a Big Issue vendor. Kelly Salter takes him to the local café – and finds herself charmed

When strolling down a busy city street with Graham Walker you have to be prepared to stop a lot. Graham is asked to ‘come back for a cuppa and a catch-up’ several times by passing friends.

Tanned with stocky build and a wide smile, Graham is to be found on this lovely Friday morning in a casual sweater and jeans. He could be accountant on his day off or someone’s dad. In fact he is someone’s dad, but he’s also a Big Issue vendor, columnist and author. And there’s also the prolific fundraising (more on that later). His new autobiography, Unsettled is the topic du jour.

An epic tale of redemption, the book reveals a childhood where surviving his father’s violence and his mother’s neglect earned Graham and his three siblings time in a care system which continued the abuse with an appalling dedication. Before he was removed, Graham avoided inviting friend over to a home which was so filthy with dog faeces that council workers refused to enter. Tucked away (not too hidden, though – a friend still manages to find him) in the back of a small café, Graham recounts the story which inspired his him to write. Quick to laugh, and talking in a rapid Bristolian burr, he is good company, although his revelations don’t make easy listening.

“It doesn’t upset me as an adult,” he says of what he describes as a dysfunctional, manic childhood. “But I feel upset for the child that I was. I am not in any way sorry for myself. My sister has always been the strong one and the most aggressive out of all of us. My brother has struggled, and still has counselling for what he went through. We muddle through.” His older brother, Geoff, his “absolute soul mate” died in a road accident when Graham 17. The impact of his childhood led Graham down a path less travelled, through a brief army career, marriage, fatherhood, and homelessness. The latter was achieved by walking out of his flat aged 35 (‘a lifetime’s burden lifted’, as he describes it in Unsettled) and on to the streets where he slept rough, and in hostels for six years before he sold The Big Issue. Although challenging, being a vendor has acted as a salve, says Graham. “I feel The Big Issue has been my counselling. If I am feeling on a downer, an hour on my pitch meeting some nice people really brings me out of it. It’s like being on a stage with an audience – you get good and bad audiences. When the stage fright goes, I am alright.”

He believes the physicality of being homeless matched what he had felt for years.

“It is easier to be invisibly homeless – I could drink and live in a park where no one is going to see me and put me down – selling the Issue gives people the opportunity to condemn.”

Graham, now 52, speaks a lot about condemnation – perhaps because as a vendor he’s experienced more than his fair share. As many Big Issue vendors can confirm, members of the public often growl, ‘get a job’ at them when walking past, even though they are earning a legitimate income. He has, however, happily changed prejudices through his enthusiasm for fundraising, which has raised more than £15,000 for charity and earned him hundreds of firm friends throughout the south west. On seeing Graham standing on his pitch decked out in top hat and tails, many residents have been unable to cling on to their preconceptions of how a homeless person should look, talk, or act.

“Challenging people’s perceptions is a perk of the job,” he says with a grin. “When I got to thinking I could be doing this for the rest of my life, I thought I have to make more of this. That’s why I do the fundraising. It gives me a more organic experience.”

Unsettled grew from weekly columns in The Big Issue South West, which in turn evolved from one-page inserts about his life he started slipping inside his magazines. They proved popular, and when an illustrator friend, Pete The Brush, suggested he turn them into a book, Graham rose to the challenge, and found others did too. With the initial printing costs at a formidable £2,000, a local printer was willing to loan Graham the money.

Within a week the book’s success earned Graham £3,000, and he was able to pay back the printer and donate the excess to various charities after paying his own costs. “People were buying it for other people who would not buy a Big Issue – the most powerful thing is that the book would reach people who would condemn people like me.”

He has just released a new, longer version of Unsettled, which offers more of the searingly honest, comic prose which Graham’s readers have long been fond of.

His success with these ventures has made people question why he continues to sell the Issue. “A lot of people think I should have sorted myself out by now, but because I have lived such an itinerant lifestyle since I was very young, that’s what I know. The Big Issue has given me a certainty about my future that I could get to grips with – 11 years later I am quite proud of what I have achieved. If I died tomorrow, I know I’ve lived a fulfilled life.”

But the story doesn’t end here. After each fundraising stint, Graham will start all over again, moving to a new town and temporarily cutting contact with friends. “It’s like I have achieve a kind of perfection,” he explains. “I have all this goodwill and trust – it’s as good as it gets. I’m not good at long-term relationships, and feel if I stay any longer it’ll be like tarnishing the experience. Also, I am always the Big Issue man, so sometimes it can be a relief to get away and become anonymous for a while.” It’s a pattern Graham has followed for over a decade, living in a van and working all over the south west.

But there is one relationship which falls out of this model, and it’s with his two children, Andrew and Leanne. “I have a long distance relationship with them now. My son respects what I do, and if I am honest, he’s proud.” He is positive that walking out all those years ago was best option: “My parenting skills were nil, I had no self esteem, no confidence, it would have been easier to carry on, but becoming homeless was the best thing I could have done for my children. I took myself out of the loop.” He believes that the pattern of harmful parenting passed down to him will not be repeated.

“I have moments where I find life difficult,” admits Graham. “But I have accepted that it will never be the easiest of rides. I have moments of despair, but they are short lived.”

“It is for people to understand – and not sympathise, why I am in the position I am,” he says of Unsettled. Sympathy isn’t a sentiment Graham wants. Likewise, he avoids playing the blame game.

“I don’t hate them,” he says of his parents who are now both dead. “But I don’t blame them either, because how can you blame someone who lived with the same legacy of a crap childhood themselves? They were doing what they knew. What do you do? Go through your family tree and work out who to blame? The negative stuff is too debilitating.” And then he’s off to get one of those cuppas.

By Kelly Salter

Unsettled is out now on Tangent books (www.tangentbooks.co.uk) at £7.99

Reprinted with kind permission from The Big Issue Cymru (www.bigissuecymru.co.uk)

I was stood on my pitch the other day, from The Big Issue SW and Cymru Nov 2007.

2008-01-14T10:46:00.000Z

I was stood on my Big Issue pitch the other day, watching three young buskers set up stall a little further down the street. Within minutes the High street was awash, and my day was enhanced, by the sweet strains of what I believe was, although I’m not an aficionado of classical stuff, the prologue of Schubert’s unfinished symphony. Well, unfinished it certainly was. The town centre manager arrived, closely followed by his attitude declaring, ‘no buskers on the High Street.’

The manager in question is the front man for the ‘Town centre partnership.’ A consortium assigned the task of policing the shopping centre. A consortium whose membership, as in many town centres, is open only to local traders. A consortium whose job it seems is to create a sterile, cloned environment that enables shoppers to go about the business of spending money without distraction.

This particular consortium even has a vision!! ‘Our vision; . . . . .to create a vibrant town centre generating tangible income streams that will enable significant marketing spend.’

Their rules though aren’t so draconian as to ban everyone from gleaning an income from the High St. Chuggers, no problem. Market researchers and Pollsters, open arms I say. Leafletters, fine (In fact I witnessed one the other day handing people a leaflet simply stating, ‘10% off everything. Today only.’ Why couldn’t she just tell them?). Illogically even ‘street entertainers’ are welcome, as long as they have the required licence and £5m public liability insurance. So, if they’ve obtained the necessary documents, I presume that knife throwing acts, human cannonballs, lion tamers, even high flying trapeze acts are all welcome. But stick a violin in your hand as you swing majestically between Specsavers and Boots and that’s it mate, you’re nicked.

But Christmas is coming, when even the hard nosed consortium relent. O.K. they don’t go as far as giving buskers a break, but in this particular town, they do, for the four weeks leading up to Christmas, allow ‘music’ to accompany us on our shopping experience. Music that plays all day long. And there isn’t even a hat in which you feel obliged to toss a few coins in. Music, that plays on a continuous loop, such ‘classics’ as Cliff Richard’s Mistletoe and wine and Aled Jone’s The Snowman. Music delivered by a series of loudspeakers attached to every single lamppost along the High street. Music on high. Too bloody high to tear the damn things down.

But as far as ‘ . .creating a vibrant town centre generating tangible income streams’ is concerned, it certainly works. A sterile High Street made even more so with the continual drone of Sir Cliff, means that every buggers in the shops trying to get away from the noise.

excerpt from 'Unsettled' published by Tangent Books

2008-01-11T14:52:00.001Z

Cornercroft was a fairly new concept in the childcare industry. It was a ‘Family Group Home’. So called, because the homes were designed to replicate a family environment. A home that consisted of eight children looked after by two live-in members of staff. The staff in question, the ‘uncle’ and ‘aunt’ as they were referred to, were John and Elaine. We hit it off instantly. Now aged 14, I was the oldest child in the home, this afforded me certain privileges such as getting up early to prepare breakfast and supervising the children when playing in the garden. To others, these might be more suitably labelled as chores. No, for me they were definitely privileges. I felt useful, wanted, needed! Over the course of my stay at Cornercroft my relationship with John and Elaine grew ever stronger. I now felt loved as well. In the evenings, after the other children were asleep, I would be allowed back up to watch TV or join them for an evening meal. I felt so comfortable with them. The relationship was something I had never experienced. I loved them dearly. I was no longer just a kid in a home. With John and Elaine I was also a part of a family.

Even the new school I attended didn’t hold as many demons as I’d imagined. Whilst at Vinney Green we all had equal status. We were all kids in a children’s home. At my new school, I suddenly became ‘the’ kid from the children’s home. I thought that might cause a few problems, but in general, no. I came with an air of mystique. Other kids were intrigued, inquisitive. OK I still had to perform the odd misdemeanour to ensure my friends remained so. And even these were to a certain point, tolerated by the staff, because of my children’s home status.

I’d been at Cornercroft for over 15 months now. Then one evening, sat watching TV with John and Elaine, they told me they had some news for me. “Elaine and I are leaving next week,” said John. “What d’ya mean, leaving?” Then John explained that he and Elaine had bought a guest house in Cornwall and would be leaving the following Monday. “A bit quick!” I suggested. “We've known for two weeks, but we found it difficult to tell you,” said Elaine. Of course it was naïve of me to think they would take me with them. But that’s what I thought. A desperate thought. When they left, not for the first time in my life, my whole world imploded.

The next ‘aunty’ and ‘uncle’ to arrive didn’t come with names. They were just, aunty and uncle. They were as far removed from John and Elaine as is possible. Just as my relationship with John and Elaine had blossomed, my relationship with ‘aunty’ and ‘uncle’, deteriorated to the point of deep resentment and hatred. My family had gone. I was back in a children’s home again. I rebelled. For the next few months I spent most of my time in my bedroom, sometimes through choice, more often as a consequence of my behaviour, both at home and school. I decided to run away. And this time it was going to be forever.

Sat in my classroom, I told one of my schoolmates my secret plans. He in turn relayed the secret to his friend, who in turn…By the end of the day half the class knew. This actually turned out to be a good thing. The following Saturday I and 15 classmates met in the nearby woods and constructed a makeshift tree house. It felt great. I was not only part of a group, I was an integral part. With a pact of secrecy and a rota system for who would bring me food, the tree house became my home. Every morning and evening four or five schoolmates would arrive with parcels of food and a chat. This was an adventure. Made even more so by the police interest. And not one of my mates revealed a thing. Then, ten days into my stint up the tree, my cover was blown. The local park warden had taken an acute interest in the groups of kids that talked to the tree in his park every day. He contacted the police.